The dangers of a black dress
by NancyMay
Summary: Inspired by an Art Deco Christmas card I sent to some friends. Jack and Phryne meet after her trip taking her father back to England.


He heaved a sigh and read the invitation again. The last letter he picked up off the mat after a week in Sydney giving evidence in court. There was no way he could get out of it, a Christmas soiree at the home of Mrs Prudence Stanley. He propped it up against the milk jug on the kitchen table and mused that Mrs Stanley didn't so much invite, as command, one's presence.

It would be a champagne fuelled evening, he knew, there would be the great and good of Melbourne but ... one person would be missing. The one he was supposed to have followed all those months ago. Mr Butler was keeping the Stanley household in order and Dot was helping out so at least there would be someone he could talk to. He found a lot of the society ladies and gentlemen tended to sneer, behind their hands of course, at a lowly Detective Inspector of Police, and some of the younger women giggled at his stories - god how he missed Phryne!

She had written, of course, how she had fought to keep her parents together, employed an estate manager and, apparently had very little time to socialise or paint the town even a pale shade of red. She wrote about the state of the house, her mother's determination to hang on to the estate but not necessarily her father.

" ... of course," he could hear her sigh as she wrote, "if mother leaves him she loses any rights to the title or the land so I have persuaded her to take a wing of the hall and turn it into her own private suite. She can entertain him there, if she so wishes, or not see him from one weekend to the next. He blew it this time, Jack, and he knows it."

He felt for her and wished he could have gone to do something, even if it was just hold her hand and wipe her tears. He knew there were tears - there were watery smudges in the letters. But he had cases in Melbourne that needed his attention, three murders that had taken far too long to clear up, not for the want of trying, but it was a gang fight and nobody was talking. In the dark evenings when he sat in his office looking at the corner where she usually sat he would wonder what nugget of information she would add into the mix or what idea she would have to catch the perpetrator of the crime. He missed those times most of all, her scent and laugh, the invitation to dine and the whisky and draughts after a long day.

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He drew himself up and stood at the front door while one of Mrs Stanley's staff took his car and parked it neatly with the others. He knew it was done on purpose to park it next to a large shiny Rolls, but he was still too tired from his Sydney trip to really care. The door opened and Mr Butler, he of the inexplicably brilliant insight into both his and Miss Fisher's needs, stood there. He had a silver tray balanced expertly on his hand on which rested not the champagne Jack was expecting but a large amber hued whisky, which on his first sip he rightly identified as a rather expensive single malt.

"Mr Butler," he sighed, "you must have read my mind."

"Indeed, Inspector," Mr Butler inclined his head, "I thought after Sydney ..."

"You read the papers then," Jack smiled slightly.

"I did, sir," he stood aside to allow the Inspector to fully enter the grand hall, "a satisfactory outcome, if I may say so." He referred to the hefty sentence handed down to a serial abuser of women and young girls.

"You may, though I think he should have been hanged," Jack muttered.

"I doubt he'll last long in prison, sir," the older man noted.

"You may well have something there." Jack sipped and savoured the whisky then, as Mr Butler melted into the background, headed slowly towards the ballroom where he could hear music.

"Ah, Inspector Robinson," Mrs Stanley may have been short in stature but her imperious tones made her seem taller, "so glad you could make it."

"It was kind of you to invite me," he smiled down at her, not adding that he didn't think he had a choice. But he did like the woman, she only ever had, what she perceived to be, her niece's best interests at heart, and she was fond of her.

"I see so little of you, these days," she touched his arm, "and I find I miss that."

"Really?" he couldn't help the question falling from his tired lips, "well, I rather think that goes both ways, Mrs Stanley," he raised his glass and gave a little laugh.

She patted his arm and left him to survey the great and good, the overdressed and over jewelled and listen to the guffaws of the hearty males and tipsy giggles of the young women and 'haw haws' of the matrons. They seemed to gather in groups and he knew they were talking about others, gossiping - Dot would remark.

"Inspector," a soft voice beside him, "would you care for something to eat?" He turned to see Dot holding a tray of canapés and smiled a warm smile. Taking a small toast topped with cream cheese and smoked salmon he said how good it was to see her.

"Though I see you kept my biscuit tin topped up, while I was away," he laughed, "does Hugh empty it quicker than me?"

"I'm rather afraid he does," she laughed back, "so I told him I was only going to bake once a week or I shall have to let out his trousers."

"Perhaps I shall have to find a new hiding place."

She blushed slightly at this, that he should deem her baking good enough to hide from the rest of the station.

A high pitched giggle that grated on his nerves had him look away towards a group of young ladies previously hidden by a couple of sturdy middle-aged gentlemen. The owner of the giggle was a tall, gawky female whose hair had started to escape its clips but it was the woman with her back to him that caused him to gape.

The back was graceful, creamy skin crossed by fine sparkling straps. The back of the dress dipped low to the base of her spine, black velvet clung to the curves, with gems thickly encrusting the fantail hem and dotted further up, some arranged as snowflakes. The top line was edged with a narrow band of white fur. She wore long white evening gloves and diamond bracelets at her wrists and upper arms. Her head decoration was of fine feathers, mere strips of black and one deep green, all held by a single large faux diamond. The hair was a sleek black bob and he had no doubt she was the reason for his invitation.

A small band struck up a melody suitable to waltz to and he smiled to himself. Setting his glass down on a nearby side table he inhaled and headed, unhurriedly, towards her. The closer he got the clearer he heard her voice, describing a chase through the docklands.

"Dreadful night," she sipped her champagne, "always is when one is chasing round the docks ..."

"Excuse me," he murmured, "I believe, Miss Fisher, this is our dance?" He held out one had to her and deftly took her glass before she dropped it, it was the first time he had ever caught her completely unawares. Obviously Mrs Stanley had not given her the full guest list.

"Inspector," she swallowed, "of course, how silly of me to forget." She allowed him to lead her to the floor and into a waltz not dissimilar to the one they danced that day at the Grand.

"Jack," she breathed, "how ...?

"I came back from Sydney to find an invitation from your aunt," he whispered in her ear, "and you know no one is allowed to refuse."

"But ..."

"I had no idea you were back," he deftly twirled her, "I was expecting a rather dull evening ... no one to talk to...when did you get back?"

"Last week," she tucked her head under his chin, "can we go somewhere and ... talk?"

"Like where?" he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Oh, perhaps ... Wardlow?" she smiled that mischievous twinkle in her eye. "I'll let you drive," she teased.

"I see," he smirked, "what are you after, I wonder, Miss Fisher."

"Drive me home, dear Inspector, and I'll show you," she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and they unobtrusively moved to where Mr Butler was holding her light silk wrap, black, delicately embroidered with silver stars.

"Inspector Robinson will drive, Mr Butler," Phryne murmured, waving her hand in Jack's direction as the elder man offered her the car keys.

"Very well, Miss," he bowed slightly and passed the keys to Jack, who took them as if it was something he did every day.

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As they drove home, at, what Phryne would normally call, a snail's pace, she opened up about her trip to England and how her parents now lived separate lives in different areas of the estate. She supposed they were happy, in their own way, and the finances had been sorted so they wouldn't starve and the staff would be paid. Her father had been told not to stray too far, again, and to keep out of card games and horseracing circles.

"Will he?" he asked as he pulled up outside her house.

"Probably not," she sighed and let him walk round to open the door and took his hand as she alighted from the vehicle, "but I refuse to bail him out again."

"And your mother?" he stood back as she unlocked the door.

"I sorted out the finances so she will not have to worry."

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In the light of the small lamp by the phone, and the silence punctuated only by the rustle of her dress and their breathing, he relieved her of the wrap and hung it up on the stand.

She removed her evening gloves and turned to look at him, tipping her head and lifting her hand to caress his cheek. He covered her hand with his and turned his face to kiss the inside of her wrist with the softest of kisses. Her knees almost buckled at the touch and she wondered if this was what he could do with one small kiss what would happen if he kissed her more deeply.

She shivered as he proceeded to kiss the inside of her forearm; gently encouraging her to put her arms round his neck; then her upper arm, and up her neck - all the softest of kisses, like whispers against her skin.

He pushed his fingers into her hair at the back of her head and slanted his lips over hers, sliding his tongue into her open mouth and tasting the sweetness of her as they gave themselves in to the searingly passionate kiss she had waited for, all the time she had known him. His other hand splayed over her naked back, under the fine straps, feeling her soft and warm, he pulled her close against him letting her feel his emerging desire for her.

They pulled apart, breathless, Phryne almost boneless in his arms. She was all but speechless, only managing to breathe out "Jack," though she wanted to make some witty remark about red not really being his colour, referring to her lipstick smeared over his lips, those lips that had just literally taken her breath away, that she had long wondered what would feel like against her own. She had lusted but now, she had fallen.

Holding her wide-eyed gaze he dipped and swept her up into his arms, eliciting a sweet small squeak from her.

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He set her down lightly on her feet just inside the bedroom and pushed the door closed with his backside. For a few seconds they stood looking at one another then Jack reached out for her and pulled her close, and into another heart-stopping kiss. She pushed her hands under his jacket and he released her just long enough for the offending article to slide down to the floor, then wrapped his arms around her, again.

She removed his tie, and pushed his braces down all the while keeping the connection. He was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, his trousers feeling tight across his hardness and knew he should take things to the next level. He broke the connection and turned her around to face away from him. She mewed her disappointment until she felt his lips softly touch the nape of her neck - just his lips, his hands were occupied undoing the clips holding the fine straps to the dress then the few clips that kept her dress fitting round her slender body. The dress fell into a pool of sparking black at her feet, leaving her standing in her silk knickers, the only underwear she could possibly have on under such a dress, and her shoes. Still leaning in to her he began to kiss her back, each freckle on her shoulders, each vertebra that stood out down the centre of her back, while simultaneously taking off his shirt and singlet, undoing the buttons on his trousers and stepping out of them and toeing off his shoes and socks, kicking them to the side, leaving him standing in his cotton shorts, his hardness straining at the fabric. He then put his hands on her hips, still placing little kisses on her skin, eliciting shivers and goose-bumps from her, trembles and sighs.

She felt his thumbs slip under the waistband of her knickers and slip the buttons through the button holes, then push them down to the floor. The only thing she now wore were her shoes which she stepped out of, elegantly.

He slid his hands round her, pulling her against him so she could feel him twitch against her, weighing her breasts and circling her nipples with his fingers, hard as little pearls between his thumb and forefinger. She leant back against him reaching her hands behind her and finding the buttons of his shorts she undid them and freed his hardness. Now they were skin to skin, heat on heat. She rubbed her bottom against him and he had to bite his bottom lip to keep control. One of his hands stroked down from her breast over her flat stomach and down to the triangle of curls which were softer than he remembered Rosie's ever being. It was the only thought he gave to his ex-wife, he was here with Phryne, where he had wanted to be for so long, almost since the first time he had set eyes on her, in the bathroom - or more precisely - exiting the bathroom, of the Andrews' house.

She felt the span of his hand and moved her legs apart enough to let his fingers begin to explore her.

She was hot and wet against his fingers, his erection pressed against her lower spine but he had to hold off. Her buttocks were perfect globes apart from a deep scare on the left one, which he had the need to kiss, to taste. He moved down her back with his lips and tongue, all the while stroking her folds feeling her on the edge of control.

The scar was a bullet graze, from her time in the war, the only blemish on her otherwise perfect body. He kissed it, licked it and sucked at it, feeling her shiver, hearing her gasp and moan. They were both so close.

He pushed himself upright and turned her round to face him, He wanted to see her face when he took her and she was undone, not push into her from behind, rut like an animal.

He lifted her, supporting her with his hand underneath her bottom, her legs round his waist and walked over to the bed, where he lay her down. Even as he scrabbled the bedclothes from under her so they would be warm later, he kept his mouth on her, leaving his mark on her breasts, her ribs, her belly before moving down to taste her juices, leave a gorgeous love bite on her inner thigh. She bucked against him, grabbed fists full of his hair implored him to take her.

He looked up her body, her delicious smooth body and smirked - he had made Phryne Fisher beg. Jack rubbed his face in her curls, blew across her stomach, nipped and kissed his way up to her beautiful mouth, now devoid of any cosmetic, and, supporting himself on his hands, leaned down to kiss her.

She opened her mouth to let his tongue in, stroked her hands down his sides and round to his hard, throbbing need. He felt big - huge in her small hand, hot and slick. She widened her legs as he moved to position himself to take her, lining himself up at her entrance and slowly, oh so slowly, he entered the slick furnace of her need. He pulled back, just as slowly, then pushed further into her.

She tried to hold him, his hips, his buttocks; a cyclist's bum, hard and muscular, tight. She brought her hips to meet his, cried as he started a rhythm, driving hard into her, finding the nerve endings that jumped with her excitement, the spots that had her scream with pure pleasure. He wouldn't use his fingers to take her over, he knew how to angle himself to take her to oblivion - and he did. They came together, he exploded his seed into her as she tightened around him in her release, a blinding, earth shattering release that left her gasping for breath in the most pleasurable way.

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She curled against his side on the cusp of sleep, smiling softly to herself as he drew little circles on her shoulder. She had a feeling he was a little bit smug, but she would allow him that, for now, besides ... she felt a little smug too, that at last she had Jack in her bed.

Jack pulled the covers over them both and let her lie on his chest. Everything about her was so soft; her skin, her breasts - she had to be the softest thing he had ever held. He felt her relax into sleep and closed his eyes, wondering where they went from here.

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He stopped pacing as Dr Macmillan opened the door and stepped into the corridor, simultaneously removing a surgeon's cap from her red hair.

"Mac?" he closed the gap between them in one stride.

"You may go in, Jack," she smiled, "all is well."

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open. All the way to the hospital she had grimaced, cursed and grumbled at him, at one point telling him she was never letting him anywhere near her again. He had just concentrated on getting her to the hospital, at the legal speed.

She was sitting in the bed, wearing a pretty pink nightdress that had loose lacing between her breasts. Her hair had been neatly brushed and she had been allowed a light dusting of makeup. In her arms was the tiny cause of her grumbling and cursing - their baby - conceived the night of Mrs Stanley's party. They had married very quietly, four months into the pregnancy, before it became too obvious.

"Hello, Jack," she murmured, "we have a son."

He covered the space as quickly as he had closed the gap between himself and the doctor moments earlier and stood by the bed, looking down at her.

"Sit," she smiled as he did so, "I'm sorry, for what I said in the car."

"I heard nothing, darling," he leant forward and kissed her, at first gently, though when she parted her lips he didn't hesitate to deepen it.

"Isn't that how we got into this mess?" she teased.

He sat back and looked at her, he had never seen her so serene, "may I?" he held out his arms for his son.

She passed the sleeping child over, easing him into his father's arms, more practiced than hers from his nephews and nieces. He looked even tinier, she voiced the thought,

"... though considering what his route to the world was, dear Jack," she had a wicked twinkle in her eyes, "I'm rather glad about that."

He looked down at the shock of black hair, just like his mother's, adorning his little head, and stroked it. So soft. He bent and kissed him, noting he smelt of his mother and that unique baby smell.

"I'm so proud of you, Phryne," he whispered, thinking back to the conversation they had had when she found out she was expecting. Even though it went against the law and all his emotions, he had told her he would understand if ...

"I'm not in the business of destroying life, Jack," she had sighed, "and though it was not something I ever had on my 'to do' list, I shall make the best of it." And that was how she got through the months of expanding waistline and funny tastes, episodes of tearful outbursts and the desire to sleep in the afternoons - though Jack loved her and told her so on many occasions, daily in fact, if not more often.

"I suppose he needs a name," Jack murmured, "what have you thought of?"

"So I have to think of that as well," she huffed, a tease, he knew.

"Well ..."

He waited for her to come up with something outlandish, something totally inappropriate that would make him the laughing stock as he grew up.

"... perhaps John," she paused to see his reaction, "after his father. It's a good strong name, don't you think?"

"Phryne," he shook his head, "two of us in the same house ...?"

"You may choose his second name," she ignored his mild protestation, "nothing silly."

He raised an eyebrow and thought. A family name, but not 'Henry', nor an obscure Roman name with a dubious history. 'Arthur', it sprang to his mind. She loved her late cousin, and he had found him endearing and gentle.

"Arthur," he spoke the name out loud, "I choose Arthur. John Arthur Fisher-Robinson," they had combined their surnames on marriage, "perhaps your aunt will forgive me."

"Oh Jack," she sniffed, damn her hormones, "really?"

"Really," he confirmed.

The newly named stirred in his father's arms and turned his little face to his chest, opening his mouth.

"I think this is your department, Phryne," he offered her the baby, which, to his surprise, she took, willingly.

She loosened the lace in the nightdress and exposed her breast, not in the least bothered that Jack was there, and let John Arthur find his first feed. She winced as he nipped her before latching on properly and sucking contentedly.

"Perhaps I should leave you to it," he made to get up.

"Why?" she raised a quizzical eyebrow, "it's not as if you are a stranger to my breasts. in fact, you can come and sit next to me," she nodded to the side, where there was just enough room for him.

When Mac returned she found Phryne nestled against her husband, and them both gazing at the sleeping baby in her arms. John Arthur had his tiny hand round his father's finger and Jack was minded to leave it there for as long as his son wanted.

"Alright you two?" she asked softly, "let's get this young man down to the nursery so mother can get some rest."

Phryne suddenly became very protective. She didn't want her baby to be taken to the nursery, she wanted him with her - he may need another feed, or just comforting. She had seen the nursery, Mac had shown her where her baby would be looked after, and it seemed cold, impersonal.

Both Jack and Dr Macmillan noticed the slight movement as she held John Arthur a little tighter.

"He'll be fine, Phryne," Mac smiled softly, still marvelling at the change in her friend. "honestly."

"No, it's alright," the new mother smiled, "I'd like to keep him here, just a little longer." She nestled closer to Jack and felt his arm go round her as he pressed a kiss to her head.

Mac knew this was uncharacteristic of Phryne, babies were not something she was usually enamoured of, but many deeply hidden feelings that had been previously locked away often surfaced after a woman had given birth.

"Not too long, darling," she sighed, "you need to rest."

Phryne felt perfectly fine, not in the least bit tired, and, unfamiliar as it was, she wanted to spend time with her baby, to assure herself it wasn't all a strange dream.

Mac left them to it, hoping that Jack would persuade her, eventually, to let the baby be taken down to the nursery. She caught a nurse and asked her to take some clean nappies in and perhaps a baby gown and blanket, in case they were needed.

The nurse raised her eyebrows.

"Her baby, nurse," Mac sighed, "she'll call if she needs help. I wouldn't try to push her to do things your way, that's Phryne Fisher, she does things her own way."

"Right."

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Jack left some hours later. Mr Butler had sent a hamper for the new parents with Dot and they had eaten and drunk; lemonade only; John Arthur had had another feed and Phryne had managed to change him without too much trouble. Her son wasn't too pleased at having his bottom exposed but settled soon enough once she had finished, wrapped him up in a blanket and handed him to his father.

Mac finally persuaded her that John Arthur Fisher-Robinson, future Baron of Richmond, would come to no harm in the nursery while she slept.

"One of the nurses will bring him up to you when he is ready for another feed," she tidied the bedclothes and took the baby from her arms. "Your mama can be a bit possessive, son, you'll get used to it."

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Phryne woke to a feeling of discomfort and dampness around her breasts and noted that her nightdress was wet and her breasts somewhat firmer than usual. Mac had warned her that such things happened and decided that, rather than waste the nourishment currently leaking from her nipples, she would go and find her baby and see if he was hungry. If he was anything like his father he would be starving by now.

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Down in the nursery a young nurse was pacing the floor with young John Arthur who was creating something of a fuss. She had been told that he was not to be taken up to his mother until a certain time, that he had to be got into a routine and she was more afraid of the senior nurse than she was of Phryne Fisher Robinson, regardless she hadn't actually met her.

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Phryne heard the cries of her son, before she got into the nursery and saw the young nurse gently jiggling her baby and rocking him. The two women locked eyes and Phryne held her arms out for him.

"Mrs Robinson," she gasped, "you shouldn't be down here." She looked round to check the senior wasn't there. "We bring your baby to you."

"My body decided he was hungry," Phryne looked round for a chair, "I think he is, don't you?"

"Sister says he needs to get into a routine," the nurse guided her to a chair used by nurses who were giving babies their milk by bottle.

"He's hours old," Phryne huffed, sitting down and offering John Arthur her breast which he took keenly and a touch too enthusiastically.

The nurse watched her and noticed the dampness increasing around the free breast. She slipped away and returned with a small contraption - a breast pump.

"Mrs Robinson," she knelt before her, "perhaps," she waved her hand at the breast, "this might give you some relief, he won't take both sides."

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John Arthur had been fed, winded and changed, his mother had been made more comfortable and the extra milk had been taken for another baby who was being bottle fed, when the Sister in Charge entered and stopped, almost mid-stride.

"Nurse!"

The nurse flushed bright red, Phryne put her hand kindly on her arm, "Sister," she smiled.

"Mrs Robinson," Sister glared at her, Phryne feigned innocence, but tightened her grip on her baby wondering if she could get him out of the nursery and back to her room.

"He was hungry and I needed to feed him."

"He needs to have a routine, four hourly feeds."

"Well, I'm afraid John Arthur has other ideas," Phryne sniffed, her hackles rising, "no one in my family is allowed to go hungry." She stood and swept past the astonished woman straight out of the room.

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On her way back to her room she spied an office, unlocked and with a telephone sitting on the desk. She slipped inside and closed the door. Moments later she was out and in her room, wrapping her son in a blanket lovingly knitted by Dot. He would be lovely and warm, she, however, would be a little chilled, as she had nothing but her robe and nightdress.

Sitting on the bed she wondered who would appear first, Mac, Dot and the red raggers or Jack, for she was sure he would have been alerted by Dot of her phone call.

It was Mac. Of course she wouldn't be tied up with a difficult surgical case when Phryne didn't want her putting pressure on her.

"Now then, Phryne," she sat on the end of the bed and noted her friend had that expression that said she was not to be trifled with, "I hear you visited the nursery?"

"I was ... er ... leaking," she gestured to her breasts and the damp stain on her nightdress. "I figured John Arthur needed me, I certainly needed him." She pouted.

"There is a bell by your bed, darling," Mac sighed, "you should have rung."

"Would they have brought him to me? Sister said he had to get into a routine but the nurse who had him couldn't quieten him down." She buried her face in the baby's blanket to hide the tears, "he was hungry, very hungry."

"Phryne ..." the doctor was interrupted by Dot knocking and entering. She carried a bag which her mistress fervently hoped held some clothes for her. She wasn't sure that it was right, or good for Mrs Robinson, to leave hospital so soon after giving birth, but she had sounded distraught and rather than try to reason with her she would do as she was asked, but called the Inspector as well.

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In his office at City South, Inspector Robinson had sighed and put the receiver down. He supposed he wasn't surprised, his wife had shown a reluctance to hand her baby over to Mac to be taken to the nursery. He finished the sentence he was writing and closed the file. He would head over and see what way the next hour or so was going to play out.

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In the room in the hospital Mac was pleading with Phryne to stay at least a week, even if she wouldn't consider the three week lying in period.

"NO!"

Dot stood between them, not sure what to do. She opted for waiting for them to finish the argument.

"Phryne ...!"

"I will not stay!" Phryne shouted, checking to see if the noise woke her son, he disturbed, but with a full stomach he was content to lie in her arms and flex his tiny fingers, "I'm going home, with John Arthur ..."

"Darling," Mac took a step forward, arms outstretched, Phryne backed off.

"We will be fine at home," she held him even more protectively, if that were possible.

"You will be better here," Mac could be just as stubborn, and she firmly believed Phryne should remain in hospital.

"All I will do here is lie in bed and hope they will bring him to me when he is hungry ..." at that moment the Sister in Charge of the nursery chose to enter and add her thoughts, which were less than complimentary, it turned out.

"That woman is not fit to be a mother," she snapped.

At that Dot got protective of Phryne and even Mac had to admit, Phryne was perfectly fit to be a mother.

Dot put her arm round Phryne, not something she did, often, or at all, and glared at the nurse.

"Mrs Robinson is an excellent mother," she snipped, "her daughter, Jane, is happy, healthy and being well educated, so will this little one be."

Dot lifted the bag with her free hand and pulled out a pair of lightweight black wool trousers her mistress had worn during her pregnancy, a white silk blouse that was long and flowing and a soft wool coat that matched the trousers. She also took suitable under garments out then took the baby and suggested Mrs Robinson dress.

Phryne took her underwear and went to the bathroom to make herself comfortable and wash her face. When she reappeared Jack was having a whispered conversation with Mac. He looked serious and was apparently appealing to the doctor's better understanding of her patient. He looked up and immediately knew she had been crying. The nursing sister was standing with her lips pursed and her arms folded, not in the best of moods. Phryne went over to Dot and checked the precious little bundle. Satisfied he was still asleep she started to dress, adjusting the fastenings in the trousers to accommodate her smaller waist, slipping the cool silk blouse on and fastening the buttons with shaky hands.

Dot handed her her makeup bag and waited while she dusted on a little powder and lipstick, then handed her the jacket and finally the baby.

"Ready, Jack?" she stepped to stand beside him, " thank you, Dr Macmillan, shall I expect a home visit?" her tone was frosty, more for the nurse than Mac, who she still loved dearly, in spite of everything.

"Indeed, Mrs Robinson," Mac smiled, "I have let your husband know your needs."

Jack nodded and thanked Mac before offering his arm to Phryne and escorting her out of the room.

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She didn't speak until she got into the taxi, waiting patiently outside the hospital.

"Thank you, Jack, and yet again I'm sorry."

"No need, " he smiled, "before I came over I called my mother, who, if you recall, was a nurse and she agreed that it would do you and John Arthur no good to be upset. After all, I was born at home and so were my nieces and nephews, nobody to tell my sisters they were unfit mothers."

"She must come over," Phryne smiled, glad she had her mother-in-law on her side.

"She's on her way, purely to see her newest grandson, of course."

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Phryne was settled in bed with the bassinet at its side in which John Arthur slept on, oblivious to the fuss his mother had made over his feeding regime. Dot smoothed the bedcovers but didn't leave immediately, her mistress looked as if she would like to talk.

"I'm sorry, Dot," Phryne sighed, "I'm making you more work, aren't I?"

"Not really, Miss," Dot smiled, "I don't have to keep going to the hospital and collecting your laundry and passing you a change of nightwear. Mr Butler can just prepare a tray rather than a hamper ... in fact it will be easier."

"I hadn't thought of that," Phryne admitted, "I expect I shall be nicer to know as well."

"You are always nice to know, Miss," Dot reassured her, "and I think Dr Macmillan let you go easily ... shall I make up a second tray for this evening?"

Phryne roared with laughter, Dot was rarely so free and honest with her and it was a refreshing change.

"Perhaps Jack will join us, too, if he isn't too busy at the station."

"Well, he was going to take leave when you came out of hospital, I expect he will bring that forward."

"Hmm..." Phryne mused, then failed to stifle a yawn.

"Why don't you have a nap, while John Arthur is still sleeping?"

"I ..." then she saw the look Dot gave her, obviously Mac had given her some rules to follow as well. Too tired to argue she slid down the bed and allowed Dot to 'tuck' her in, almost immediately falling asleep.

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By the time Mac arrived that evening, Phryne had successfully fed and changed her son three times, had her own light but sustaining lunch, bathed and taken a second nap, and phoned Mrs Stanley. Dot had set the bedroom up so there was a small table, big enough for three to sit round for dinner; as Phryne refused to stay in bed; and a side table to take the serving dishes. Dr Macmillan gave her a thorough examination and declared her the fittest of new mothers, but warned her against overdoing it.

"I won't," Phryne sighed, " you left rather strict instructions that no one will disobey because they are more scared of you than they are of me, didn't you?"

"I may have made a couple of suggestions," Mac tried to look innocent.

"Huh!" Phryne huffed good-naturedly. She knew she would eventually get bored, staying in her room with only a baby for company, but as soon as she was able she would be downstairs, in the parlour, receiving visitors, she hoped, one of which would be her aunt.

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Jack did indeed return home for dinner, and smirked when he saw how the bedroom had been laid out. Mac was cradling John Arthur, which he found touching and unexpected in equal measure, and Phryne was sitting on the bed in her nightdress and robe. He was amazed at how she had taken to motherhood and wondered if her problem with the hospital had more to do with losing Janey than the system in place for new mothers. Still, she was home now and appeared to be relaxed and happy. When his mother arrived the following day she could take some of the load off Dot, looking after and helping his wife in the days to come.

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As he grew strong and tall, a perfect blend of his parents, John Arthur; the only child of the union; was loved by almost all that met him, as a child and as a young man. He had the rapier wit and sense of humour of his mother, the steadfast loyalty of his father and need to take care of those around him, and the intelligence of both of them. When his grandfather died and he inherited the title Jack and Phryne watched him take over the reins of the estate with pride.

"I wondered, you know," he whispered to his wife, "where we would end up, from that night after your aunt's party."

"Who'd have thought we'd be standing here, married for nearly thirty years and parents to a Baron," she smiled and tugged his hand. "The view from the folly is particularly lovely, at this time of year," she looked into his eyes, "if you remember?"

"I do, darling girl, I do."

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I didn't want this to become one of my long, chapter driven stories, but even so it is longer than I anticipated. I hope you enjoyed reading it.


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